Chamomile
by ZeldaDragon
Summary: So, how did that rubber ducky get to be on John Constantine's bathtub? Response to a challenge.


**Response to a challenge from Astral Light (the place where Constantine fans unite; check it out...link in my profile, near the bottom). The challenge is as follows: **

**"As you all may or may not have noticed, John Constantine, _the_ John Constantine... has a rubber duck. Yes, a small, yellow rubber duck with an orange beak. This duck sits on the edge of his bathtub, against the wall, or at least it did before Angela got there and killed said bathtub. No, I'm not kidding. It's there. Your Challenge is... to describe this duck's origin, i.e. how it got to John Constantine's bathtub. How you go about this is up to you. The duck's origin just has to be the focus of your ficlet. "**

**Some of you guys should try your hand at it, then go join the forum and submit it. **

**Told from Constantine's PoV. Enjoy!**

xxxxx

Her name was Ruth. My memories of her are fuzzy, but one always seems to come clearly, even when I wish it wouldn't. The night she died. That was the night I really came to terms with death, in way of half-breeds. I never realized that half-angels, especially not ones like Ruth, could die. It was tough to deal with. I mourned her for years afterward. Ruth was the only being, human or otherwise, to believe in me…to trust me.

The night was cold. Unusually cold for California. That alone should have warned me that something was going to happen. Since then, of course, I've been much more in tune with the things around me. I was on my way to see her, to tell her that a girl she'd protected from one of her more troublesome adversaries was going to live.

She opened the door to her apartment graciously, welcoming me inside and offering me something to drink. I turned her down. You see, Ruth had never quite…adjusted to human life. It was hard for her to blend in. She made mistakes all the time when it came to things we did normally. Like fix drinks. 

"Thank you so much for bringing me the good news, John," she said, flashing me a brilliant smile. "Lara would have been a hard one to lose. She's a sweetheart."

"The doctors stitched up her wrists and assured her parents she'd never attempt it again."

"And she never will!" Ruth exclaimed, aghast that I didn't quite believe the doctor's words. "That idiot Luther didn't even do his job right. I saw him deported this morning." She smiled again, this one more sly. That was another thing I found appealing about her. She had a smile for every occasion. "Please, have a seat," she said kindly, gesturing toward the sofa.

I sat, twisting restlessly until I found a comfortable position where a spring didn't dig into my behind. It was a rather dilapidated couch, falling apart at the seams with stains all over the cushions. It had always been like this. She probably got it at a flea market or something. I looked across the room, taking into consideration the odd assortment of items placed haphazardly on the shelves. A lamp with a chunk missing out of the side, an empty picture with the price still stuck to the glass, a rubber duck on the mantle above the fireplace, books in various languages stacked on top of coffee mugs. So many little things. For a moment I was glad she never had any human visitors. They'd know at once something was off in their friend's head.

"How have you been, John?" Ruth asked. I could hear the concern in her voice, and caught a quick glimpse of wings folding benignly behind her back. "Answer me honestly."

"I'm okay," I told her gently. "My doctor took some X-rays this afternoon, but she said the coughing could very well be from bronchitis. You know I have asthma, so it's a possibility."

She put her hand on my cheek. A maternal gesture. She's always treated me like some kind of son. Maybe that's why I feel so comfortable with her. "I wish I could help you," she whispered. "But I can't intervene. I'm sure it's nothing. Just bronchitis, as you said." She paused, sniffing the air. I knew she found what she was checking for when her eyes widened in dull shock. "You're still smoking! I thought we've already been through this. You promised me you'd quit."

I looked away, ashamed at the accusatory tone in her words. "I tried. Believe me, I've tried. I couldn't do it."

"Don't say that!" Ruth scolded gently, yet another smile tugging at her lips. "Of course you can do it. You just need some sort of…motivation."

This time I returned her smile. "I have no motivation." I stood before she could protest. "It's late, and I need to get going. I'm glad to hear about Luther's deportation."

Ruth followed me to the door. "Thanks for coming by, my boy." She placed a quick kiss on my cheek. "You always have been my harbinger of good news. I hope you visit again soon. I always look forward to our time together."

Her smile as she closed the door was the last thing I saw. That was our last conversation. Nothing special, but still an occasion I hold close to my heart.

Sara came knocking at my door hours later. She, too, was a half-angel, and another of my many acquaintances. The angels seemed to like me more back then.

"John," she said breathlessly, tears running down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry…"

Sara went on to tell me that Ruth had gone out that night, following a young girl who was being stalked by one of the many half-demons roaming the streets. The chase went on until the child, scared to death by the voices she could almost hear behind her, threw herself off a cliff in the desert. Ruth had jumped after her, wishing to save the poor girl from damnation. She succeeded, at the cost of her own life. EMTs found the girl two hours after the incident after her parents put out a missing person's report and got her to the hospital. Of course, they couldn't see the fallen angel in the dust beside the tiny – living – body.

Ruth was my last real friend, before I met Hennessey. She was the last person I ever opened myself to. I had always expected to die with her by my deathbed. Now it was certain that I was going to die alone, with no one to comfort me as I made that final journey into Hell. She was determined to save me, she had said. Determined to save me because she knew I didn't deserve what was coming. I never let myself believe her, and I guess that was a good thing.

Before Sara left, she handed me a small bag filled with brown packaging paper. "She left behind what could be considered a will. Thought it was the 'human thing to do.' Wanted you to have this."

I closed to door and sat at my table, almost afraid of what I would find in that bag. There was no note, no formal statement as to why she gave me what she did. Even though, when the paper fell to the floor to reveal the rubber duck that had been sitting over her mantle for years, I felt pinpricks behind my eyes. I didn't have a fireplace in this apartment, so I put the little duck in the most obvious place. A place where I would see it everyday.

By the bathtub.


End file.
